


Home, James

by loves_books



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two simple words, and an utter cliché, of course. A poor joke coming from anyone else, a joke Hathaway had long since learned to tune out and ignore.</p><p>From Lewis, though, he knew it was no joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to Willowbrooke for wonderful beta skills, useful advice and much-needed encouragement. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

“Home, James.”

Hathaway thought that Lewis sounded every bit as exhausted as he was, perhaps even more so, but those two simple words spoken in that comforting Northern-accented voice gave him the burst of energy he needed. Just as they always did.

_Home, James._

Simple words, and an utter cliché, of course. A poor joke coming from anyone else, a joke Hathaway had long since learned to tune out and ignore.

From Lewis, though, he knew it was no joke.

Perhaps it had been, at first. Lewis had said he’d been waiting his whole life to say it, and Hathaway had just rolled his eyes and bit his tongue.

_Home, James._

It somehow never became a standing joke, though it could easily have gone that way. Instead, it had become rare for Hathaway to hear those two words, and for that reason they’d become precious to him.

He didn’t know if it was deliberate, but Lewis used them sparingly, and never after an ordinary day. Not after one of those days that occurred less and less frequently when they were able to close their files, shut down their computers, and actually leave the station at half past five. And never casually. Never when they’d drained the last of their well-earned pints of best and were about to leave the pub.

_Home, James._

Most often, Lewis offered him those two words at the end of a difficult case. Difficult, but not terrible. Today had been a classic example, long and challenging and depressing in far too many ways to count. But they’d solved the case at least. There would be justice of some kind, even if nothing they did could bring the deceased back to life.

It was job satisfaction of some sort, Hathaway mused. Better that the case was solved. Better that there was some kind of closure for the grieving families involved.

He felt sure Lewis thought the same way. In those two simple words, Hathaway always heard the same sense of relief and release as he felt himself, as well as the same weariness.

_Home, James._

Today, even in his exhaustion, those two words gave him the strength to smile and carry on for a little longer, though his body and mind were crying out to simply stop. He could carry on long enough to drive his boss home as requested. Long enough to decompress, at least in part, as they sat in the car side by side, usually in comfortable silence.

Because Lewis never used those words when he knew they needed to talk. Not when it had been one of those cases, the kind that would linger in the mind. Cases that had really got to one or both of them. 

After one of those cases they might not say anything at all, but somehow they’d end up either at the nearest pub or back at Lewis’s flat. Or one of them would suggest a takeout, or a quiet walk. Neither of them would ask if the other needed to talk, but they could read each other well enough after all these years together. The opportunity would be offered silently, and most often accepted gratefully.

_Home, James._

Hathaway would drive in silence as he listened to Lewis breathing beside him in the passenger seat, letting the deep and slow rhythm calm him. And because he was exhausted, because Lewis only ever used those two words when they were both exhausted, he’d let himself think the thoughts he rarely entertained. 

Listening to his boss’s steady and comforting breaths, Hathaway would let himself imagine he really was driving them home. To their home, the home they’d made and lived in together. Instead, he would be dropping Lewis off at his front door before carrying on alone. Returning to the cold, bare flat he had lived in for years now, but still didn’t think of as home.

If he was honest with himself, he would have to say he didn’t really know what home was, but he did know it wasn’t rooms filled with possessions, easy to pick up and move on, or just to replace if lost. Home wasn’t anywhere in particular, not when it was just him on his own. Home was something far less tangible, though he suspected other people felt very differently. Home was a feeling he’d never had. The feeling of being with someone who wanted him and who he wanted in return. Home was comfort and love and support and so much more.

As Lewis shifted slightly beside him in the car, stretching out tired muscles and stifling a yawn, Hathaway imagined a world where the older man called him James more often than not. A world where he might dare to call the man by his own first name, Robbie, rather than reserving its use for the depths of his most private fantasies.

_Home, James._

The drive rarely took long. Even exhausted, Hathaway often found himself wishing for more time. More time to indulge in the dreams he knew would never come to pass. Dreams where he found the strength to confess his love for Robbie. Dreams where the older man, instead of laughing at him, would immediately pull him into a deep kiss. 

But all too soon, he’d pull up outside Lewis’s building, offering his boss a softly whispered “G’night, sir”, watching until the older man reached his front door.

Hathaway always made himself drive on before Lewis got inside. No point in tormenting himself further. 

He’d found a kind and supportive boss, a brilliant and inspiring mentor, and more than that, he’d found a friend. Wishing for anything more was a waste of time. He knew that on an intellectual level, of course he did.

But still, every time he heard those two words uttered in Lewis’s exhausted voice, in that rough accent he’d grown to love, he’d let himself dream. Just for the length of the drive to Lewis’s home. Then he’d lock those dreams away again, and remind himself how lucky he was just to have Lewis in his life at all.

_Home, James._

And home he would go. Alone again.

Though if he had ever looked in the rear-view mirror as he drove on, he might have seen Lewis standing on his front step, shoulders sagging, watching with a look of sad resignation as Hathaway drove away.


	2. Chapter 2

_Home, James._

Lewis has to make a conscious effort not to use that special little phrase too often, but sometimes it slips past his lips despite his best efforts. He’s all too aware that it probably annoys the hell out of his sergeant, but sometimes he just needs to say it. 

Like today, for example. It’s not been the worst of days, but certainly not the best. They’re both tired and worn down by a difficult case, and Lewis needs that familiarity. Needs the comfort of it, even if it really is only a phrase and he knows it can never be real. 

James has never commented on his use of that phrase, but Lewis always notices the twitch of thin lips that betrays what the younger man is thinking. Hathaway doesn’t mind it, he thinks, at least when it’s not used too often. Hathaway is a riddle wrapped up inside an enigma buried inside goodness knows what else, but there are always tiny little tells like that twitch. After so many years together, Lewis knows exactly what to look for, and exactly how to read his sergeant.

_Home, James._

At least he’d figured out pretty quickly that Hathaway was always a ‘James’ and never a ‘Jim’. His sergeant would never have complained, Lewis knows that, but he’d still been mortified at the time when he’d put two and two together and realised he must have been driving his new sergeant mad using a nickname he hated. The first rule of police work was never to assume, but Lewis had done exactly that.

He’s tried hard never to make that mistake again, and so he never assumes anything about James if he can possibly avoid it, though some assumptions are sadly inevitable. James doesn’t share much, but the two of them have become close in spite of that. Lewis has somehow found the younger man becoming the closest friend he’s had in a very long time. And more recently, he’s been aware of his feelings for James taking on a whole new meaning, though he tries to keep those particular feelings buried deep.

He catches himself sometimes watching James in the office, noticing the elegant line of the other man’s long neck as he leans over his computer. Or he finds himself wondering how James’s band practise went, on evenings when he misses his company and their customary pint together after work. On a day off, he frequently looks at the clock, wondering what the younger man is doing at that particular moment. Wondering if he can find an excuse to call, or to text him. Wondering exactly when his young sergeant became such an important part of his life.

“Home, James.”

Lewis says it now, that simple little phrase, at the end of a long and difficult day. Hoping Hathaway won’t mind too much. And he settles into the front of James’s car, trying and failing to stifle his sigh of relief as his tired muscles relax into the cushioned seat, his sergeant folding his long body carefully into the driver’s seat beside him. 

A comforting and familiar silence falls as James starts to drive, and Lewis lets his mind wander in a way he tries not to allow. He tries and fails to remember all the reasons why he shouldn’t steal sideways glances at his sergeant. James’s face is a blank mask of concentration as he watches the road ahead, and Lewis can see the shadows of his own exhaustion beneath focussed eyes, but something deep in his heart stirs as he observes the younger man.

Not classically handsome, his James, perhaps not in the dictionary definition of the word. Striking, certainly, with those cutting cheekbones and that long chin. Dark eyes that seem to change colour with the younger man’s moods, sometimes brown, sometimes blue, now appearing almost black as James concentrates hard. Lewis had been aware of the younger man’s good looks long before he realised his feelings had morphed from professional respect to deep friendship to something approaching love.

James will get him home safely, Lewis trusts that much and more. He trusts James with his life, and he trusts that James feels the exact same way about him. Their partnership is built on trust, and even though they’ve hit a few speed-bumps along the way, there is nothing they wouldn’t do for each other. 

That’s why he’ll never say anything.

What does he have to offer a man like James? What does he have to offer anyone, really, aging and set in his ways as he is?

Lewis isn’t even sure exactly what he feels for James. It could be just a late mid-life crisis for all he knows, or it could be that he simply misses having someone close. James has long since filled some of the hole in his heart Val’s death left behind, though nothing and no one will ever replace her completely. James fills a lot of his waking thoughts, too, and an increasingly large portion of his dreams.

But Lewis will never say anything.

Sometimes, though, he thinks he sees something from the other man. A glance or a touch from James which could almost be an invitation, or a request. Thoughtful little gestures that go far beyond the expected duties of a bagman. All the times when James is the one who suggests going for a pint together, or getting a takeaway, rather than waiting for Lewis to ask. It could mean something, though he’s never been sure.

It could just as easily be wishful thinking on his part, and of course it would be completely and utterly inappropriate for Lewis to ever suggest anything. Unprofessional, more than that, and he values their working partnership too much to risk James ever asking to be reassigned. As he once told James, between them they make a not-bad detective. Even if he lost James’s friendship, he wouldn’t want to lose their professional relationship. 

So, Lewis will carry on as he has done for years now, since he first started working with this remarkable young man. Savouring every moment they get to spend together. Hoping each day to unlock another little piece of the puzzle that makes up the man James Hathaway is beneath his many protective layers.

_Home, James._

And once his sergeant has driven him home, once he’s unfolded his old and tired body from the comfort of the passenger seat, he’ll try not to watch as James drives away. Try not to imagine a world where they really are home, in the home they share together. As he thinks about that, he realises that he hasn’t had a home in a long time. Not in the most important meaning of the word, anyway. For him, a home should be somewhere filled with love and companionship, and he longs to have that again. 

James never looks back as he drives away. Off to better things, Lewis thinks sadly, though the rational part of his mind is aware that James is probably every bit as exhausted as he is. The younger man will be headed for his bed, no doubt, and there’s a thought Lewis really doesn’t need in his mind. Not when he has no chance of ever seeing that for himself.

Still, he always stands and watches until James has driven out of sight. Only then will he turn back to his front door and pull out his key. Another night alone.

Could be worse, though. At least he’ll see James again at work in the morning, and perhaps they’ll have time for a pint after, if nothing urgent crops up in the meantime. At least Lewis has the younger man in his life, and as long as that remains true then he isn’t truly alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Time will pass, and for the most part things will stay the same. They will continue to be closer than any other pair of detectives, far beyond colleagues, not quite family, and certainly more than just friends. Lewis and Hathaway, Robbie and James – a formidable team both on the job and off, just as they have always been. Each of them watching out for the other, protecting and loving from afar. Each of them trying to be satisfied with the way things are between them, and just about succeeding. Each of them wanting more, but neither willing to make the first move for fear of hurting the other, or losing them forever.

Surprisingly, in the end it will be James who takes that first step, rather than the older man. 

It will be a night like many others before it, and at the same time unique. It will be at the conclusion of yet another difficult case, one which will leave both of them in need of a few beers and some quiet time together to digest everything they’ve seen and done, though it will fade swiftly from their minds as other far more pleasant distractions take its place. 

James will have had a few drinks, though he won’t be drunk. He will be a little emotional, or as emotional as Robbie ever sees him, though very far from losing control. And he will finally say something, though he won’t have planned to. He will have decided long before then to never say anything at all, even though he will have started to hope. Started to wonder.

There will have been moments when he catches Robbie looking at him in a certain way, with a hint of hope and longing in those blue eyes of his. There will have been little gestures, casual touches which linger too long on his arm or his shoulder. A gentle hand resting on the small of his back as they walk side by side. Stolen glances from each of them, both quick to look away with a guilty blush when caught. 

There will be no real reason for him to say anything, no defining moment that forces him into action. Nothing catastrophic that makes him feel Robbie just has to know how he feels, just in case they don’t ever have another chance. He won’t have planned to say anything at all, but he will. Perhaps things will have just reached their tipping point, after being so precariously balanced for so many years. Perhaps he’ll just have to know, one way or the other, so he can stop wondering. Perhaps he will just be tired of being alone. 

“Please. Take me home.” 

James will never know how he finds the courage to look Robbie in the eye after he blurts out those words, but somehow he does. The grip he has around his empty pint glass will be painfully tight, so tight he will be able to feel his knuckles crack, and he will fear the glass might shatter.

And in return Robbie will look him right in the eye, one hand wrapped more loosely around his own glass, and one resting on the table top close to James’s hands. So close, yet still so far. “Of course,” he’ll say softly, breaking their eye contact as he drains the dregs of his pint and prepares to stand. They won’t be drunk, but they’ll still need to find a taxi. He will think he can drop James off before carrying on alone, as usual. “Come on, lad.”

James won’t move, though, still looking at the older man. His next words will barely be more than a whisper, though they will land heavily in the quiet of the evening. “Take me home, Robbie.”

At his words, Robbie will pause, looking back into those suddenly stormy eyes, looking deeper than before. Even after so many years together, James will rarely use his given name, and coupled with the hope and longing he can see in the other man’s eyes now… he will feel he knows all about hope and longing, and his heart will start to beat faster, his breaths coming short. He will wonder if James can possibly mean what Robbie thinks he means.

He will stretch his hand out tentatively, hopefully, disbelievingly, in the same moment James reaches out for him, and their fingers will twine together for the first time. It won’t be like it is in the movies or in the books that speak of love – there won’t be thunderbolts or lightening striking, but for both of them there will be a strong sense of just how right it is, and a sense of completion. More than even that, it will feel like coming home.

“Come here,” Robbie will whisper, tugging that hand ever so gently. That will be all the encouragement James needs to move closer, sliding along the bench and around the table until they are pressed against each other from shoulder to hip to ankle. They will both be so incredibly glad they are in a shady corner of a mostly deserted beer garden, so no one will notice when James moves closer still, burying his head against Robbie’s neck and pressing a tentative kiss right above the older man’s racing pulse. No one will notice when Robbie buries his nose in James’s soft blonde hair as he wraps his arms around the younger man’s slender body, finally taking him into his embrace and holding tight. 

After an impossible amount of time – seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours – James will lift his head ever so slightly, and whisper again, “Take me home, Robbie.” 

And Robbie will say that simple phrase he’s always treasured, with more meaning than he’s ever felt before. “Home, James.”

At that, James will smile his sweet, shy smile before taking Robbie’s hand once more, ducking his head as they both stand. They will leave the pub together, both of them full of anticipation and hope. They won’t ever talk about what that phrase really means to them, though they will both feel that they truly are going home, at last. Home to Robbie’s flat that first night, though in truth they could go to James’s flat or even to a cold and emotionless hotel room. It wouldn’t matter. They will leave together, and they will stay together, and that will be all that really matters that night.

As the years pass, it won’t matter much to either of them where they actually live. Home won’t be James’s flat, nor will it be Robbie’s. Home won’t be the tiny house they eventually buy together, once Robbie finally retires and James takes promotion, once they don’t feel they have to hide anymore. 

Home will be whenever and wherever the two of them are alone together. It will be anyplace where they can touch and kiss and share a bed. Home for each will be knowing that the other is there, for love and support, regardless of what life might throw at them. James will think that home is wherever his Robbie is, and Robbie will feel the exact same way about his James.

Neither of them will ever say that out loud, though. They will both continue to be men of few words, and both will still be embarrassed by displays of strong emotion. But they won’t need to say the actual words, because each time James says, “Home, Robbie?”, the older man will turn to his younger lover and take his hand, squeezing tightly and smiling widely.

“Home, James.”


End file.
